*
Nashville, Tennessee/March 6, 1953
Elsie loved to walk the aisles of the plant on Friday—payday. Everybody felt good, there was a general air of expectancy, and she was sure to get some nice compliments, rendered respectfully from the foremen.
It must have been like this in the old days in the South, she thought, all the field hands looking on, the overseers paying their respects.
Elsie had their respect, in truth. Troy McNaughton had always been a mercurial sort and held himself distant from the workers on the floor. Elsie toured all the time, keeping her fingers on the pulse of the place. If somebody had a complaint, they could confide in her, confident that she wouldn't tell on them, believing she would help if she could.
The huge B-47 center sections and inner-wing panels were moving down the line, glistening in the sheen of their protective green paint. The subcontract was immensely profitable, for the terms had been computed on the higher wages paid in Seattle. In Nashville, McNaughton was making a killing.
But the parts were anonymous; they never moved down the line to assume the personality of a complete airplane to be flown away. Instead, they were sealed in long cocoons and shipped by rail to Boeing in Wichita or to Lockheed in Marietta, Georgia, where B-47s were completed.
She much preferred trooping the refurbishing line, where old airframes were given new life, and at the end of the process engines sputtered, props spun, and an airplane took off. She had asked Dick Baker to meet her there, and he was late as usual.
McNaughton's suicide had no impact on the plant's operation. Elsie couldn't truthfully say that she missed him; in the last years of his life even before his illness, he had been difficult to get along with. For some reason, missiles had taken his fancy, and it had bothered him that none of his missile programs got off the ground, literally or figuratively. And after he learned he was dying, he was impossible.
"Yo!"
It was Baker. God, if she could only bring herself to get rid of him! He'd slipped into being familiar with her in public, no matter how many times she'd reproached him for it. But that was nothing. She'd been going through some purchase orders at random—an old habit of hers—and had found out that Baker had authorized the purchase of some critical B-47 attachment bolts. Called "milk bottle pins" because of their shape, they were used to attach the inner-wing panel to the fuselage center section.
"Who the hell authorized you to get into the parts-buying business?"
"We already talked about that, honey. If I'm lying I'm dying! I told you I could improve on some of the prices and you said, 'We'll see.' Well, take a look. I got those parts for sixty percent less than we were paying before."
"What are they made of, putty?"
"No, this is first-rate material, and a first-rate producer. He's just hungry, wants to buy into the business. I had our quality control guys check it out real good."
"Don't ever do it again. Let me rephrase that. If you ever do it again, I'll fire you on the spot."
His voice dropped, threatening. "You'll never fire me, babe—you need what I've got, as often as I'll give it to you. And don't you forget it."
She shuddered, knowing he was right.
*
Salinas, California/March 9, 1953
"Damn, Bandy, we haven't argued like this for twenty years! Seems like old times."
"Don't old-time me, you silver-haired bastard! We're strapping these JATO bottles on whether you want to or not." Bandfield had installed the battery of two JATO bottles on each side of the amphibian's fuselage.
Roget slammed his fist against the hull of the Catalina. "Come on, be sensible. Weight is critical on this old dog."
Bandfield put down his wrench; the temptation to crack Roget on the head with it was too strong.
"Look, you con me into spending two weeks of my leave to fly this thing, and then you won't let me do what I think is right. It damn near doesn't make sense—you keep telling me weight is critical when you're going to be scooping up tons of water?"
Roget growled, "Of course we're going to scoop up tons of water—that's the whole idea."
Bandfield wasn't convinced that it was safe. Roget Aircraft had converted seven Lockheed Lodestars to executive aircraft, cleaning them up and selling them as "Roget Rockets"; they had a backlog of nine orders on the books. But Roget had acquired six Grumman TBMS, old torpedo bombers, two B-25s, and a gorgeous C-54—all intended to be made into water bombers for firefighting.
"Hadley, I think you're getting us in over our head, tying all this money up in inventory and development costs. The market just isn't there yet, and you know the Forest Service won't buy anything they haven't developed themselves."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, you're always too conservative. The Forest Service is fiddling around trying to drop water from crop dusters—hell, you can't get a decent load in a little Stearman! I've been running some tests, and unless you can get two hundred gallons out in one drop, it's not worth it. They're bound to come around, and when they do, I'll be ready."
Bandfield shook his head; it was a familiar melody, one he'd heard for twenty years, all his adult life. The strange thing was that Roget was always right—it was just that he was always years ahead of his time.
Now Roget was looking five years downstream. Fighting forest-fires with water bombers was going to be a tough job. The amount of water even a C-54 could carry was limited, and the planes would have to be precisely positioned to drop at exactly the right spot, or else the whole load was wasted. And most of the time would be spent flying back and forth from the fire site to an airfield where they could retank with water.
That was the reason for their current experiment. Roget was determined to cut the turn-around time of the airplanes. He'd rigged the Consolidated PBY Amphibian with two scoops that dropped down on each side of the hull, snorkles in reverse. The plan was for the PBY to drop its load, then go and make a quick pass along a lake surface, touching down under power. The scoops would lower and open, water would be crammed into the tanks, and the PBY would be back over the fire site in minutes. Figuring conservatively, he estimated that his system would quadruple the utility of a fire-fighting airplane—if it worked.
Bandfield stepped back up on the stand and continued bolting the JATO bottle holder onto the fuselage. "Well, old man, I'll tell you what's really critical, and that's power. This old clunker hasn't got any. In the service it used to take off at eighty knots, cruise at eighty-five and land at eighty—I don't know what it'll do after you stuff it full of water."
"You're worrying about the wrong thing. It's the water scooper I'm concerned about."
"Don't worry about the scooper, pal, just worry about whether this tub has the oomph to get back off the water. If it doesn't we're going to wind up in the trees at the edge of the lake."
After a week of intensive work, they were ready for the first test of the system. Roget insisted on going along, overriding Bandy's objections.
"I may be a geezer, but I can still take care of myself. It's my idea—if something's wrong with it, I'm the guy who needs to see what happens so I can fix it."
"I'd rather have you in a boat at the lake, ready to fish me out if we go in."
"Don't worry, I've already made arrangements to have some of our people out there in a powerboat, if we need it."
Lake Sutherland was a 3,600-acre water management lake northeast of Salinas, nestled in a shallow ring of hills, with an adequate north/south approach and departure axis. Bandfield made two low practice passes, uncomfortable because he had only about ten hours in the airplane. Speaking through the intercom, he called, "Hadley, I'm going to try to put it down this time. Ready?"
"All set."
Bandfield skirted the lake's edge, wishing he had time to admire the blue-green contrast of trees and water at the edge of the pebbled beach.
His landing attempt was bad; trying to minimize the impact forces, he kept on too much power and shot across the lake's surface without ever
getting low enough for the scoop mechanism to engage.
Embarrassed and annoyed, Bandfield growled, "I'm just going to drop this sucker in like it was a normal landing, Hadley. As soon as I touch down, you punch your buttons."
Taking his time, Bandfield made a long, low approach over the scrub pine and manzanitas that lined the north side of the lake, the first growth after the forest fire of two years before. He touched down a hundred yards from the shore and yelling "Scoops out!" applied full power.
Roget's scoops lowered and the bright-blue water cascaded inside, staggering the big amphibian as if an anchor had been thrown out. As the weight built, Bandfield felt the sloshing water shift the center of gravity back and forth, bucking the airplane like a rocking horse.
"Gotta have more tank baffling ..." Now the PBY was staggering nose high, the rear of its hull dragging the surface, airspeed dead-stopped at eighty, just below the point he needed to get airborne as the opposite shore loomed up.
"JATO coming on." His fingers stabbed the switches and, after a second's hesitation that lasted a lifetime, the rockets fired, lifting the PBY majestically into the air, water dripping from the hull.
Nothing was said on the way back. When they'd landed, Roget crawled forward and said, "Told you we needed that JATO. By God, I guess you'll learn to listen to me."
*
Frederick Air Force Base, California/ March 12, 1953
The B-47s sat on the ramp like acres of gigantic insects, their long slender wings drooping, sleek fuselages cocked nose high on the bicycle undercarriage. Each of the three squadrons of the 103rd Bomb Wing (Medium) were equipped with fifteen of them—and each bomber could carry more explosive power in its bomb bay than an entire wing of B-29s armed with conventional bombs.
The B-47s cost $3 million apiece and were the hottest airplane in the air, faster than most fighters. They were the backbone of the Strategic Air Command's evolving war plan, demanding of their crews—but trouble-prone and dangerous to fly.
Lieutenant Colonel Stan Coleman's assignment as commander of the 445th Bomb Squadron suited him perfectly. His experience in fighters made the transition training at McConnell Air Force Base easy, and he had quickly mastered the B-47. The fact that he had less flying time in bombers than anyone in the outfit was more than offset by the fact that he was an F-86 ace from Korea. Both the base and the command had been the first of Milo Ruddick's payments in kind.
Ginny had stayed in Little Rock. The story was that she was there to help manage the estate and no one cared enough to question the argument.
Coleman was a realist. He knew he had been lucky in F-86s and felt he'd earned the chance to relax a little, with a copilot to back him up and a radar-observer to navigate. He found that his salesman's personality fit into the general scheme of things at Frederick. The 103rd was run by a Colonel Williams, a World War II B-29 pilot who liked a good time and took care of his people. Guy and he had hit it off instantly—Williams loved to party, and the two of them would put on civvies and cruise the bars up and down Route 99. Coleman bowled the country girls over, and Williams was more than content to pick up on his rejects.
Now things were looking even better. Fitz had finally gotten over his anger about the Menard accident, after Coleman had persuaded him to for weeks—and bailed him out of two jams. When Fitz graduated from Wichita later in the month, he'd be his copilot. He was a perfect choice—skilled and discreet.
*
Manpo, Korea/March 13, 1953
U Eun Chur had come hesitantly into the room on the day following the beating, expecting to find Marshall dead. Yet his heart still beat in his frozen, broken body, and his breath came in rasping grunts. U brought in two armloads of thatching and a sheet of canvas; he lifted Marshall from the floor and laid him on it.
The next morning he checked again—the man was still alive. U Eun Chur brought in a bowl of warm water, washed Marshall's face and hands and sponged his lips. That afternoon he went to the kitchen as usual for the prisoner's chook ration. It was given without comment.
It was two days before Marshall, responding to a primitive urge for survival, was able to swallow the diluted gruel without even gaining consciousness; he lingered on, scarcely breathing. U Eun Chur undertook his care by default—no one else knew what to do. To his surprise, he found that he was no longer bullied and given the worst tasks to do. Instead, like the prisoner, he's simply ceased to exist.
In the camp there had been little reaction to Colonel Choi's beating of the American; prisoners were often beaten to death. But this man refused to die, becoming an embarrassment to all but U Eun Chur, the only Korean who'd shown Marshall compassion. If he had died, they would have known what to do—shovel him into some common grave. If he had been an ordinary prisoner, they might have taken him to the hospital. But as a prisoner who had ruined an officer's career, Marshall was an enigma, too dangerous to help, too threatening to kill, so his existence was ignored.
U was sitting by Marshall's side, puzzling about the rising tide of fear that permeated the camp. Joseph Stalin had died the week before and the entire Communist structure seemed to be reeling. The door to the hut creaked open and a North Korean captain stood before him with a pistol in his hand.
"Where is the Negro American?"
U pointed to Marshall, blood crusted around his nose and mouth.
The captain studied Marshall for a few moments, then screamed, "Get this man to the hospital. We need him for an exchange of prisoners." In that instant, Marshall's life had assumed value. The captain ordered U to stay at his side.
At the hospital the doctor gave him transfusions and intravenous liquids from captured American stocks. On the second morning, Marshall awoke to look into U Eun Chur's frightened eyes and slurred, "Where is Colonel Choi?"
U Eun Chur understood only "Choi," and he shook his head vigorously and pointed out the door. Then he ran to get the doctor.
*
Pine Bluff, Arkansas/June 30, 1953
It was a pleasure to see Josten work. The rough crowd that made up the Klan—mill hands, truck drivers, laborers—listened respectfully as Josten told them how close Hitler had come to winning, and what he would have done to the Jews and the nigras in America if he had not been betrayed by his army generals.
Pine Bluff was surrounded by thousands of acres owned by the paper companies, who harvested the timber. Most of the land was totally vacant, leased out to hunters, and dominated by clouds of savage mosquitoes. The Klan meeting was held on acreage Ruddick owned near the Arkansas River. Armed Klansmen blocked the access roads to keep out unwanted visitors, while the state police looked the other way. It was one of the many signs of Josten's organizational skills.
They were hanging on his words—his talks were really rewards for undergoing the tough discipline and training he demanded. As terribly injured as he had been, Josten now had the strength to work them all into the ground, roaming the drill fields, supervising rifle practice. They tolerated his brusque instructions, totally convinced that they were now working with "the real thing."
The German had done his homework. His speeches were studded with references to the Confederacy, to all the great fighters of the South; Lee, of course, and Stonewall Jackson—but also the irregulars like Nathan Bedford Forest and Quantrell. Listening to him one got the feeling that Lee had been Hitler's right-hand man, that Stonewall Jackson had led the thrust through France, that Rommel had charged at Gettysburg, and that Quantrell could still be found in the Alpine Redoubt.
He mesmerized them, speaking in cascading sentences, words piled upon words, emotions lashing emotions, the torches casting flickering shadows across his lean face, seeming to send sparks flying from his demonic eyes. He painted a clear picture, one they believed and understood, of noble white men defending their women against raping nigras led by grasping Jews. He never said nigger or Negro—always nigra, and with a Germanic snarl he turned Jews into ]uice.
Ruddick nudged Dixon Price in the ribs as Joste
n moved toward his conclusion, his hoarse voice brittle with intensity, saying, "Let me tell you a story, my comrades. In Munich, in 1923, a little band of men led by Adolf Hitler were shot down like dogs by the reactionaries of the German government. Yet only ten years later Hitler came to power in a new Germany!"
Josten let the facts sink in, saw the crowd grow tense with excitement, with the idea that they could gain control, be somebody.
"When Hitler began to expand the German armed forces, he brought with him the flag that had been with him at Munich, a flag that was stained with the blood of his comrades. It was called the 'Blood Flag of Munich,' and he used it to consecrate all of the banners of the newly formed units of the Army, of the Navy, and of the Luftwaffe."
Josten looked about, knowing that consecrate was a big word to use with this group of idiots.
"He blessed the new flags with the Blood Flag."
There was an audible gasp of comprehension.
Josten turned, and a case was handed to him.
"In this leather case, I have the original Blood Flag of Munich. And with the same flag that Adolf Hitler used to consecrate the flags of the German armed forces ..."
He turned and a huge silk flag carrying the Klan insignia was presented to him.
"So in the spirit of creating a new Blood Order, I consecrate the flag of the Pine Bluff Klaven—the first Storm Klan's flag!"
For a moment there was a shocked silence so profound that he could hear the sounds of frogs croaking on the river bank. Then there came a guttural roar from the crowd, a swelling joyous scream of approval that echoed across the field.
Josten carefully replaced the Blood Flag in the leather pouch, gave the raised-hand salute of the Nazis, and left the podium, going directly to a car where Ruddick and Price were waiting to take him to the next meeting, outside of Little Rock.
"Helmut, this Storm Klan idea is working like monkey glands on the old guard."
"Yes, but there's not much we can do with the older members; they're too set in their ways. The only way to rejuvenate the movement is with new recruits."
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